


give it your all

by eso (cazzy)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Blindfolds, Bottom Lance, Dom/sub Undertones, Edging, Fingering, Glove Kink, M/M, Orgasm Denial, PWP, Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Spanking, Sugar daddy Keith, Teasing, Tender aftercare, lance getting wrecked but also treated like a princess, slight breathplay, without any actual daddy kink because fuck that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 08:23:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10715769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cazzy/pseuds/eso
Summary: If this is a horrible mistake and Lance ends up dead in an alley, he hopes Hunk will be the one to write his obituary. It’ll read:Yeah, he was probably an idiot for trying to hook up with a hot stranger, but don’t we all want to die doing what we love?Either way, Lance is going to end the night getting fucked. He just hopes it’s in the way that involves orgasms and possibly some cuddles.





	give it your all

**Author's Note:**

> This is a commission for the wonderful [Emu](http://www.twitter.com/emuyhn)! This fic definitely spiraled out of control so I hope you enjoy the excessive wordiness and the boys getting up to some kinky sex, haha. ♥

Lance wipes the palms of his hands nervously down the length of his dark jeans. They’re sweaty with the anxiety of what he’s about to walk into, but the thrum of apprehension that runs through him isn’t _entirely_ negative; there’s something much headier underlying it, as well.

“Thanks,” he says to the Lyft driver as he slides out of the stranger’s car. It’s a genuine statement of appreciation — thank god for modern technology and the cheaper, less intimidating version of a taxi service — but roughly three seconds after exiting the vehicle, he honestly couldn’t describe anything about the man who had driven him if prompted. All of his attention is occupied by the anticipation of what’s to come; he’s far too distracted to remember something like the minute details of some person’s facial features when he's never going to see them again.

He pauses at the entrance of the building he's meant to enter. It’s habit more than anything that has him pulling his phone out of his back pocket, glancing down at its screen for the umpteenth time in the last fifteen minutes. His battery’s fully charged, Hunk knows exactly where he is and they have an open line of communication in case of emergency, and he’s got an overnight bag slung over his shoulder just in case things don’t turn out horrifically.

It started a few weeks ago.

There’s a dive bar a ten-minute walk away from his and Hunk’s apartment, although neither of them go to it on a regular basis, what with their meager minimum wage job salaries and over-busy school schedules. The bar is known throughout the city for its legendary nachos, though, and it’s a common hangout place for college and grad students.

After a particularly grueling week of college midterms, Lance had made the executive decision to treat himself to a plate of fantastically unhealthy nachos piled high with cheese and beef and maybe a few beers.

There had been some guy brooding in one of the corner booths of the bar when he’d walked in, but Lance had ignored him in favor of beelining toward the bar in order to ply himself with alcohol as quickly as humanly possible. He was pretty confident that he’d be having nightmares about the amount of essays he’d written in the last 24 hours, and wanted to forget about it for the next little while.

The night had passed in a haze of Lance celebrating the end of exams. It was fun, and exactly what he'd needed to rewind. Keeping an open tab on his drinks meant his bank account bemoaned the extra expenses, but overall, it had definitely been a worthwhile trip out.

He didn’t entirely remember how he got home that night — he must have walked, although he has absolutely no recollection of doing such a thing — but the morning after, when Lance woke up with an awful taste in his mouth and squinted down at the too-bright phone screen to check the time, there had been a new text message from an unknown number telling him that _Last night was fun._

The mystery of the previous evening sparks Lance's curiosity as he returns to the bump and grind of college student life. Understandably, he shifts into detective mode to try and recall who exactly is texting him, why he felt the need to exchange phone numbers with them, and what exactly the two of them had done that was so _fun._ He’d be lying if he said that he wasn’t intrigued, and it’s possible he gets carried away in the process of gathering information.

Lance finds out that person he’s texting is a guy named Keith, and Lance had introduced himself with some dumb pickup line the night previous after downing his third drink — apparently Keith had been keeping track of how many drinks Lance had consumed, which is _interesting,_ because it means he’d been watching him before they’d ever interacted, and if that doesn’t inform him that the other isn’t entirely straight, he doesn’t know _what_ does.

While he isn’t the most subtle of people, he does manage to trade selfies with Keith at some point to try and jog his memory of who he’s exactly conversing with. He shoots off one of his best selfies (even Hunk had signed off on it with the official stamp of hotness, and everyone knows Hunk has impeccable taste), and is partially surprised when Keith sends one of his own that a) Lance  _does_ remember the guy as the one sulking in the corner and drinking something honey-colored when he’d walked in the bar, and b) Keith is way more attractive than he’d originally given him credit for.

The picture itself isn’t too great: it’s slightly blurry, and not at a flattering angle — seriously, Lance could teach him a thing or two about angling faces for the camera — but even these disadvantages aren’t enough to obscure the fact the cut of his attractive jawline or the over-long hair that falls across his cheeks in a flattering way.

Lance didn’t mind talking with him before, but he’s _definitely_ interested now, knowing that the man on the other side of his conversations is smoking hot.

And the thing is, Lance is a talker. It’s so easy to fill the silence with surface-level chatter, to engage others in conversation about things that don’t really _matter,_ that it’s his default setting in most social situations. But it’s different when you’re not face-to-face with someone. It’s easier to sink into more intimate details about yourself when you’re faced with a keyboard on a screen rather than a person’s judging facial features and penetrating gaze looking into your entire being, and so Lance… slips.

Their interactions are casual, at first, marked by the typical qualities of two people getting to know each other. But it isn’t long before Lance identifies that tell-tale sign of attraction when he eagerly awaits the buzz of his phone that signals an incoming text, or that the snarky banter he and Keith sling at one another is basically always foreplay.

Keith's an awkward flirter, but they wouldn’t have spent hours into the night shooting messages back and forth about their interests in and out of the bedroom if there wasn’t _some_ kind of non-platonic interest present. Attraction simmers in Lance’s veins over time, slowly churning into something more powerful, and he eagerly awaits the boiling point.

Lance shakes his head, jerking himself out of his musings as he looks up at the skyscraper waiting in front of him.

If this is a horrible mistake and Lance ends up dead in an alley, he hopes Hunk will be the one to write his obituary. It’ll read: _Yeah, he was probably an idiot for trying to hook up with a hot stranger, but don’t we all want to die doing what we love?_

Either way, Lance is going to end the night getting fucked. He just hopes it’s in the way that involves orgasms and possibly some cuddles.

The hotel he’d been told to show up at is high-end, that much is abundantly clear. There’s an extravagant fountain placed in the center of the walkway, and inside a chandelier hangs high on the ceiling of the spacious lobby. Honestly, Lance thinks he's too poor to even step foot inside the opulent building, and as he steps inside he sweeps his gaze around nervously. He hopes the bellhops aren't about to tackle him and immediately escort him out of the hotel for clearly being so out of place, but of course no such thing  _actually_ happens. It's just his nerves... right?

Keith's most recent text is brief and to the point, but still sends a tingle of nervous anticipation down his spine. It states the address of the hotel, along with, _Be there at 5. Room 716. I’ll be waiting._

Lance gulps, skimming through the brief message again as he heads toward the hotel’s elevators. The higher the elevator climbs, the more he starts to panic: this is truly a terrible idea, isn’t it? The promise of sexual gratification had won over his common sense — don’t normal people just invite casual hookups to their apartments or houses, and not conspicuously anonymous hotels? Silence reigns in the elevator as it climbs higher and higher. Lance is jittery with adrenaline, realizing that by showing up, he’s practically begging to be tied up and kidnapped, or something. (Not that he’s necessarily objecting to the being-tied-up part, but…)

It isn’t long before the elevator finishes its ascent, chirping out a loud ding to notify Lance that he can’t put this off any longer. If he backs out now, he knows he’ll regret it, constantly turning it over and over in his head until he’s convinced himself that he made a mistake by not showing up, and it’s this reminder that steels him as he moves down the hallway until he reaches the right hotel room.

Lance stands in front of the inconspicuous hotel door for what feels like hours. The room number is engraved on a metal plaque that shines gold, his own distorted features looking back at him. It’s more likely that only a few minutes have passed, rather than hours’ worth, but alerting Keith to his presence is still a fairly daunting task, and Lance is thankful that the hallways are quiet and empty. It makes him feel less strange for staring at a door like it’s about to murder him.

When he finally builds the courage to do more than stand there awkwardly, the rap of his knuckles against the wood of the door feels overloud in the silence.

Keith opens the door after what has to be an eternity. He looks very similar to how Lance remembered him at the bar, only better, if such a thing is possible. He’s wearing a white button-down shirt, the sleeves pushed up and over his forearms to reveal pale skin in a way that definitely shouldn’t be as alluring as it is.

“Uh,” Lance starts, tearing his gaze away and up to meet Keith’s. To his surprise, he’s being looked over, too, and he tips his head down to glance over his current outfit and make sure he looks even a fraction as attractive as Keith currently looks to him. He’d opted for a pair of slim jeans that he _knows_ makes his ass look great, and a deep blue shirt that’s thin and clings to his chest. It's not a bad outfit, and he hopes Keith likes what he sees.

“Hey,” Keith says, looking back up into Lance’s eyes before moving aside to let him in. Lance steps through the threshold of the doorway, and the door closes heavily behind him, like it’s cementing the fact that he definitely can’t change his mind, now.

The air around them is awkward, tense in a way that prickles Lance’s skin into uneasiness.  He almost wishes he’d thought to down a drink or two before showing up, allowing the alcohol to build his confidence in a way that sobriety isn’t quite succeeding at currently. For all that he’s enjoyed flirting with Keith and doing shit like tossing pick-up lines toward men and women that seem receptive to the terrible puns and ridiculous jokes, it isn’t often that he makes it this far.

“How are you?” Keith asks. He’s stiff, standing in the middle of the room and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else but here, which is disconcerting because Lance is feeling something fairly similar.

“I’m good.” It’s a token response, but Lance doesn’t know what to say. How does he transition this awkward introduction — well, re-introduction, technically, since they’ve met before even if he doesn’t remember it — into getting fucked into the mattress? He _knows_ Keith’s capable of such thoughts, he’s texted positively nasty things to Lance before in the past, but the man in front of him seems like such a far cry from it that Lance isn’t sure what the best course of action is.

A quick sweep of his gaze around the room reveals nothing: there’s a suitcase lying on one of the dressers in the room, and the bed is pristinely made and _huge._ It’s obviously a higher-end room, stocked with a minibar and a TV that looks like it belongs in a movie theater rather than a hotel. But it doesn’t look like Keith is planning to drug him and abandon him to the bathtub after stealing his organs, and a little knot of tension eases from Lance’s shoulders. It looks like Keith might be just out of his comfort zone in the same way that Lance is, and that’s something he can deal with. It just takes the right amount of courage.

Keith clears his throat before ducking his head, eyes dropping to the plush carpet beneath their feet. “Maybe this was a bad—”

“No.” It’s different than talking to someone through a phone, but the more Lance considers the situation, the more he believes that Keith wants this to happen just as much as Lance does. It won’t be as easy as tearing his clothes off and demanding that Keith take him, he thinks with a flush, but it’s something they can definitely move past.

Lance eases his backpack off his shoulder and sets it on the ground. It’s a gesture meant to reassure Keith, which seems oddly backward because Lance is the one who entered a relative stranger’s hotel room, but he feels closer than ever to grasping what he’s come here for, and that’s not a cause worth giving up on. _I’m not going anywhere,_ the action says, and Keith seems to pick up on it.

"No?” Keith asks, looking back up at him, eyes dark with embarrassment and something else that Lance can't quite identify.

“Nope,” Lance says, popping the _p_ loudly to try and diffuse the tension. He pulls out his phone and waves it around as a demonstration. “I don’t know about you, but I’m here because this guy I’ve been talking to for the past few weeks is really interesting. He’s pretty bad at flirting, honestly, but never misses the opportunity to call me out with some kind of snarky remark, and I’m kind of into that.“ He pauses for a second, mostly because it’s more information than he meant to reveal, but even from day one Keith’s been able to draw the truth out of him. It’s readily apparent that this is the case whether or not Keith’s standing directly in front of him. “I’m pretty sure you’re still the same person as the one I’ve been talking to, even if we’re not communicating between our phones anymore, and _that’s_ who I came for. I don’t plan on walking away unless that’s really what you want.”

Keith doesn’t say anything for a long enough stretch of time that Lance starts to doubt himself. He doesn’t _want_ to leave, now that he’s here and pretty much confessed his feelings, but he’s obviously not about to do anything that would legitimately make Keith uncomfortable. He shifts uneasily, wondering if he should grab his bag and make a hasty exit.

“You told me that you didn’t remember much about the night we met,” Keith starts, which is true enough that Lance doesn't offer a rebuttal. “But you came up to me and said, ‘The body is 90 percent water and I’m thirsty for you.’”

Lance chuckles. “One of my better lines, I must admit.”

“I told you I wasn’t impressed,” Keith says flatly. “I wasn’t there to _socialize,_ but you still walked up to my table to try to get my attention. After I said that, you winked at me and said that _I_ should be working harder to impress _you,_ because my attitude wasn’t doing me any favors in the face of beauty.”

Oh, man. He can never tell Hunk about this. That’s pretty embarrassing, even by Lance’s standards.

“I asked for your number a few seconds later and we talked for the rest of the night.”

Wait, it _worked?_ Nevermind, he’s definitely telling Hunk.

“And that made you think, _Hey, I want to bring this guy to a fancy hotel room?_ ” Lance jokes, mostly because he’s wracking his brain, trying desperately to remember that evening. He knows Keith and him have exchanged a lot of information, by now, but he still can’t recall exactly what they talked about, and if he’d admitted anything incriminating.

“You looked so tired.” Somehow, during their conversation, Keith’s closed the distance between them, and now they’re near enough that their chests could just about brush if Lance leaned in ever so slightly. He notices that they’re almost exactly the same height, Lance maybe an inch taller, but their eyes meet easily enough, and he’s distracted by the strange blue-purple of Keith’s eyes in the dimmed hotel light.

“You deserve to have someone treat you nicely,” he says quietly, so soft Lance almost doesn’t hear it.

He does, though, and arousal spikes through him almost instantaneously. It explains a lot about the setting of this expensive hotel room, and, when Lance thinks about it, some of the more prying questions Keith’s asked him — questions about Lance’s money, what sorts of things he interested in, why he hasn’t shown up to the bar again since that one night.

And Lance has been doing a lot of thinking tonight. A lot of apprehensive contemplation about the risks of even coming here, about whether or not Keith wants the same things as he does. His mind hasn’t stopped working since he stepped through the door, either, evaluating the situation and how best to diffuse the tension. It’s a lot of work.

Now, Lance just wants to _act._

It takes less than a heartbeat to close the space between them, and Lance wastes no time in tangling his hand in Keith’s long hair as he presses their lips together. Keith really is the perfect height — Lance just has to tilt his head to slot their mouths against one another, and he responds immediately to the kiss. Keith's lips are soft but slightly chapped, and the drag of skin against his own sends a prickle of elation down Lance's spine.

He pulls Keith’s lower lip between his teeth, delighted when the other groans lowly. Keith’s fingers scramble for purchase in the cloth of his shirt, and they stay entwined like that for an undeterminable period of time, wrapped up in one another, tasting each other, exchanging body heat. He could do this all day. Satisfaction purrs in his mind as his tongue slides against Keith’s teeth, the space of his mouth hot and wet and inviting, and he loses himself in the sensation.

Keith pulls away as Lance tries to maneuver him closer to the bed, drawing a noise of complaint from Lance’s throat. He looks thoroughly well-kissed, cheeks flushed and hair tousled from Lance’s fingers running through the strands. “You need a safe word before we get started.”

A noise tears out of his throat like he’s a man possessed, and Lance’s gut drops in a way that reminds him of walking down stairs and misjudging the last step; his stomach lurches like in that half-second of freefall when your body’s uncertain of whether or not you’re going to miss the landing, that feeling that isn't quite fear but so instinctual and quick like lightning touching down on the earth.

It’s _wonderful._

His foot catches on solid ground as he exhales loudly and feels a grin stretch his mouth wide.

“Blue,” he says immediately, heartbeat quickening at the shift in topic. He’s done plenty of, ah, _research,_ on such things before, and he knows colors are a fairly common choice when it comes to halting or stopping a session that gets too intense. Does this mean that Keith intends to treat him like that, to bring him to the cusp of intensity where he could possibly need to even use one?

Keith seems to feed off of Lance’s confidence and offers a smirk at his too-quick response. “Blue to stop what I’m doing, red to stop everything. Okay?”

His nod is so quick and enthused that it makes him dizzy. “What would you like me to do?” They’re still standing in the room, and possibilities flash through Lance’s mind — is Keith going to ask him to drop to his knees, right here? Or he could pin Lance against a nearby wall and take him just like that, he'd fingered himself just a few days previous, he's loose and it wouldn't take long before Keith could sink into his tight heat. It’s one thing to have anxiety about getting started, but if Keith’s going to _command_ him into action, he’ll have no choice but to respond, he’ll be obedient and pliant and wonderful —

“Get on the bed,” Keith says, and there’s enough hesitation in his voice that Lance knows he’s not entirely sure that Lance will obey him. He’s eager, though, and isn’t so stupid as to shoot down the first request — although it really should be a demand — of someone who’s establishing themselves in this specific power dynamic. Lance shoots him a grin and climbs onto the plush mattress without a complaint. The sheets seem expensive, overly soft against his skin, and Lance turns so that he’s on his back, elbows propping him up. “What next?”

“You mentioned some of the things you’re interested in,” Keith says from the edge of the bed, hovering over it like he’s not sure if he wants to join Lance or continue watching him. In his opinion, Lance could easily get himself off like this, with Keith’s dark eyes watching his every move, but he’s secretly hoping for a little more than some voyeuristic masturbation, now that they’re clearly delving into deeper territory. His mind and body ease into the sensuality that comes with sex: most of the tension he had stepping through the door has all but dissolved now, and the hum that thrums through him now is purely one of anticipation.

“Mm,” Lance responds, flushing a bit at the mention of it. It’s one thing to be typing to someone when you mention all the things you’re into sexually, and another to discuss them when you’re in the same room as someone who will potential be partner to some of them, but he can’t fake the way blood pools in his groin as he remembers some of what he’d revealed to Keith.

“I, um. Went ahead and got a few things. For tonight.”

Lance is suddenly filled with two immensely polarizing emotions: the first is panic as he quickly flits through his memory to remember the worst things he'd told Keith via text message, and the second is a push of arousal the burns through him at the thought of Keith taking his  _sexual interests_ and turning them into potential reality between them right now, in this very hotel room.

“Yeah?” he asks, voice a few octaves higher than he would’ve liked.

“Yeah,” Keith confirms, and then he’s pulling something dark and silky out of his back pocket. He hadn’t even noticed anything on Keith’s person when he had walked in, but it’s clear now that Keith had prepared more than Lance was expecting. His attention hones in on the piece of cloth, immediately recognizing it as a blindfold, and his next exhale is breathy as it forces its way out of his chest.

“Is this alright? You said you li—”

Lance makes an affirmative noise, incapable of forming an actual cohesive response. He’s never done anything like this before — has had countless fantasies about it, yes, but has never had a partner he’s trusted enough to ask to indulge him — and it’s overwhelming, to be presented physically with a small strip of fabric that really means _much_ more.

The bed dips beneath Keith’s knees as he moves up next to where Lance is sprawled out over the sheets, and all of Lance’s attention is honed in on his movements. He inches closer, the backs of his hands brushing against Lance’s face as he moves to tie the blindfold on. Fabric covers his eyes, the soft press of the blindfold across his face obscuring his vision, and although it's hardly much in the grand scheme of things, Lance still finds himself breathless at the sensation.

“Let me know if that’s too tight.”

Without his eyesight, Lance’s other senses are amplified. Keith’s voice is loud against his ear despite the fact that he’s likely not raising his voice, and Lance’s skin prickles with awareness of the other’s proximity. “It’s — fine,” he stutters out, but really it’s better than fine. It’s perfect, and he’s wanted this for so long. He's considered Keith doing something like this to him before, has fantasized about him holding the power to take away his own senses from him, and he has not a single complaint in the world.

This is thrilling, and Keith’s hardly done anything to him yet. Lance swallows unsteadily, lifting a hand to press fingers against the blindfold as if to reaffirm its existence. His eyelashes flutter uselessly against the silky fabric, and he wonders what else is in store for him.

The bed shifts as Keith draws away, and Lance hardly has time to mourn the loss of his closeness before he hears the sounds of a drawer opening — a nearby nightstand, maybe — before it snaps shut again. The noise is loud in Lance’s ears. Keith returns to his position alongside Lance — his skin prickles with the awareness of the other’s proximity, and he’s willing to bet that if he tilted his head ever so slightly to the left, he could brush his lips across Keith’s cheek, at least —

“Stay still,” Keith says, and Lance freezes, realizing that he’s arched his neck subconsciously in mimicry of the action currently filling his imagination.

“Or what?” he says breathlessly. It’s a character flaw that Hunk’s pointed out before, that Lance always feels the need to poke the bear, to goad and tease and push as far as he can to see what he can get away with —

“Do I need to tie you up?”

It’s phrased as a question, but the way Keith says it, like it’s a statement rather than in inquiry, with a perfectly even tone...

“Fuck,” Lance says, hips bucking involuntarily up into the air at the mere _thought._ He knows that Keith knows it’s something he’s interested in, but before now it had been something kept to the inner walls of his fantasies, never to see the light of day. It's a filthy fantasy, to want to be tied up and immobile and at the mercy of another, but it's also something Lance has wanted for as long as he can remember, and the possibility of it has him panting in want.

Keith huffs a quiet laugh of amusement, his breath puffing against the exposed skin of Lance’s neck. “Maybe next time. I didn’t bring any rope tonight, and I’d want to get something that wouldn’t damage your skin.”

Oh god, he’s already thinking about a _next time?_

Lance is so, so positively screwed. This was the best idea of his life.

“ _Lance,”_ Keith says sharply, and can feel but not see the hands that grip both sides of his hips and shove him forcibly down into the mattress, stilling his squirming movements as all of his blood rushes south. “I said to stay still.”

He freezes entirely, this time, halted by the display of force and the fact that Keith’s finally touching him. Arousal slams into him full-force — it had been a low hum beneath his skin since he’d stepped through the hotel door, spiked by the blindfold and Keith’s mention of possible future bondage, but it’s the manhandling as he sinks down into the cushions of the mattress that opens the floodgates. Lance realizes belatedly that his own elbows, which had previously been propping him up, have given out from beneath him, and he’s now lying prone on the bed, which means Keith must be arching over him in order to push him down into the bed.

“Sorry,” he gasps, and it’s a thready, weak apology, but it seems to satisfy the man above him. Keith lets up on the pressure, which is both a blessing and a curse, but Lance manages to stay still this time, like he’s been commanded.

“Much better,” Keith says, and Lance chokes on his next breath at the praise. Keith’s really pulling out all the stops here, and he is _so_ far from complaining. He might actually already be in heaven, actually.

It’s a tossup between whether he wants Keith to shove him into the mattress again or to praise him for obeying more — a contradictory one, but good luck explaining _that_ to Lance’s erection — but he sinks teeth into his lower lip and manages to remain still enough that Keith doesn’t comment on it again. He takes it as a good sign.

“I have to go get a few things,” Keith says. “Can you undress while I’m grabbing them? Will you do that for me?”

Lance is scrambling to unbutton his jeans and slide them down his hips before Keith’s even finished talking. He contemplates the notion that he’s coming off as too desperate, too obviously needy and wanton and that it’s going to be off-putting to Keith, but the thought barely flits through Lance’s mind before he hears the other inhale sharply. That’s not the sound of someone who’s displeased with the current turn of events, and Lance realizes he doesn’t need to see to gauge Keith’s reactions toward him.

“Like what you see?” he croons, grinning and turning his head toward the direction he heard the noise come from.

“Brat,” Keith says, voice far enough away that it’s clear he’s across the room, and Lance can’t refute it. He wishes he could toss a cocky wink toward Keith, but that’s obviously not a possibility right now, and instead he makes a show of sliding the fabric of his shirt up and over his toned stomach. Slipping a shirt off is something that typically only takes a few brief moments, but right now Lance has an audience and so he takes his time, dragging the blue shirt over his skin until it’s finally rucked up around his shoulders.

There’s a light flutter of touch right at the inside corner of his left knee, and Lance furrows his brow beneath the blindfold as he tries to figure out what Keith's intentions are.

“The first night we met,” Keith starts, his tone overly casual. It’s a bizarre non sequitur, and Lance doesn’t understand until he continues: “You noticed my helmet in the booth beside me and made a pretty interesting comment.”

Helmet? Wait—

“I thought of bringing my bike gloves for tonight, but they’re pretty worn and dirty, so I invested in a new pair for you.”

 _“Oh my god.”_ Lance realizes it in the exact moment that he recognizes what’s touching his leg. The hand — Keith’s hand, wrapped in what has to be incredibly expensive leather, for it to be so exceedingly soft — slides up until it’s resting high on his thigh, and Lance is confident he’s harder than he’s ever been in his life.

“Please—”

“I didn’t really get it when you first brought it up, but I think I’m catching on,” Keith says, a note of something smug in his voice as he grabs a handful of Lance’s thigh, gripping it tightly.

The pressure is exquisite mixed with the feel of the glove’s leather, and the fact that Lance can’t _see_ it is almost torture. He wants nothing more than to look down and be able to see the contrast between the leather and his skin as Keith trails fingers up and down his exposed flesh, but all that’s visible when he tilts his head is the penetrating darkness of blindness. He lets out a frustrated noise, and Keith responds by letting off the pressure until he’s sliding his fingers down the length of Lance’s leg again, agonizingly light to the point of almost tickling.

Lance’s cock throbs. He thinks he could probably come like this, with Keith teasing him with feather-light touches in erogenous zones, but it wouldn’t be _satisfying._ His dick’s still gone untouched, despite the fact that he’s clothed just in boxers and sprawled out on the bed in what is clearly a _fuck me right now_ position, which is just a travesty. This situation should be rectified immediately.

“Touch me,” he whines, knowing he probably sounds like a petulant child. He doesn’t particularly care, though, especially if it’ll get him what he’s looking for.

“I am touching you,” Keith responds, punctuating the point by drumming his fingers against Lance’s skin. Lance can practically hear the smile in his voice.

“You know what I mean!”

“Mm,” he says. Lance squirms beneath him — he can feel the warmth of Keith radiating through the gloves, and he wants nothing more than for one of those hands to dip beneath his boxers and jerk him off with the sensation of thick, buttery leather enveloping him.

Instead of doing that, though, Keith swats at his skin, the noise of a slap with the glove filling the air as his hand hits high on Lance’s thigh. “How many times to I have to tell you to _stay still?”_

It’s an impossible feat. The slap hadn’t _hurt,_ exactly, had been more startling than anything else, but the sensation was certainly enough for Lance to moan loudly in response. “I can’t,” he gasps, because it’s too much — he’s going to fucking come in his pants like some kind of virgin, all because Keith’s gone from 0 to 100 and he was so _naive_ to think he would’ve come unprepared —

“You want me to touch you when you can’t even obey a simple order? I know you can do better than that.” Keith punctuates his words with the soft press of his hand against the impact made from his slap. Lance is sure there’s a red mark there that he can’t fucking see, but the words themselves ground him enough to calm his body’s movements. He _does_ want to obey Keith, but he also wants to come, wants to relieve the intense pressure of arousal.

There’s even a hint of more praise to come in his words, and that’s enough to steel Lance’s will. He’s not about to disappoint the person who’s granting him his wildest dreams, after all.

Lance nods, trying desperately to ignore the throbbing of his cock. “I’m sorry.”

Keith smacks him again, this time on the other thigh, and Lance grits his teeth as he dedicates all of his effort toward not moving in response to the flat of Keith's hand striking him. “Make it up to me, then, and I’ll reward you.”

Keith shifts on the bed until Lance feels the press of lips against his own, and he opens his mouth the moment a tongue presses against the seam of his lips. It’s a brief kiss, more of a reminder that Lance is currently lying on the bed, blindfolded and at Keith’s mercy because he _asked_ for this, and he nods into the kiss to show that he understands. Then Keith’s hands fall away until nothing’s touching Lance, and he whines instinctively at the loss of contact.

“You’re so responsive,” Keith murmurs. If there’s one thing Lance knows about himself when it comes to sex, it’s that he’s _loud._ He’s capable of quieting down when he needs to — when he’s alone and in his room trying not to let Hunk hear he’s jerking off, or in the shower where his moans would otherwise echo off the tiles, but when it’s someone else touching and teasing him, he doesn’t stand a chance.

Lance wishes he could see what he looks like right now, how he’s responding to Lance, wishes he could do more than this — and, he supposes, he technically could. He’s not bound by ropes or chains, and it would be all-too-easy to reach up and unknot the blindfold, to slip a hand inside his boxers and jerk himself off with a few quick strokes, but....

That wouldn’t be playing the game, and that just won’t do.

Lance lies on the bed, shock still, waiting for Keith’s next move. He wants his reward, after all.

Keith really is an all or nothing person, Lance quickly discovers. One moment it feels like Lance is practically alone on the bed, cock aching as he's abandoned to writhe helplessly against the mattress, and the next, there’s a firm hand pressing down onto his erection, the stimulation almost overwhelming with its suddenness. He chokes out a breath, realizing that he’s embarrassingly close to coming, just from this.

“Sto—” he gasps, but it’s not _blue,_ it’s not an actual command to stop, it’s more instinct than anything that has him choking out the word. As embarrassing as it’ll be to come, he’s also _dying_ for release, especially at Keith’s hand. Lance’s mind is a haze of pleasure, his only coherent thoughts focused like a pinprick on the way Keith’s touching him. He lets out a pathetic noise, the most warning he can give before sensation crashes over him and tugs him over the edge —

“Nooo,” he manages to whine as the pressure lifts and Keith removes his hand just before Lance tumbles into overstimulation, which earns him a soft chuckle. He’s nearby, his breath puffing across the skin of Lance’s exposed collarbone, and Lance can’t help but bite out frustratedly, “You said you’d _reward_ me.”

“Not yet,” Keith says, and Lance wants to hiss some sort of snarky remark that’ll egg Keith on and make him forget about this whole staving-off-an-orgasm thing, but then Keith’s dragging his boxers down his legs, and that silences any kind of protest Lance was considering making.

With his dick exposed, Lance feels vaguely self-conscious, but a telltale shift on the bed signals to him that Keith’s moving closer to his dick, not further away, and that’s a good sign, right? It’s hard to judge Keith’s reactions without seeing him, but he hasn’t seemed disgusted as of yet, and Lance is tempted to thrust his hips upward except he knows _that_ will upset him, especially after he’d reminded him to keep his movements to a minimum.

The press of leather against his skin returns, Keith touching the bare skin of Lance’s inner thighs. His touch is higher than it was before with the boxers in the way, probably just inches away from where Lance _really_ wants him to be touching. Keith's gloved palm drags against his skin, leaving a burning trail high on Lance’s thigh, tracing a path upward and teasing Lance with the mere idea that he may wrap his gloved hand around his too-hard cock and give him the relief he’s panting for, before his projection changes and he slides his hands back down, down away from where Lance wants, _needs_ him to touch.

“Keith,” Lance complains, knowing his voice sounds needy and not caring at all. “Please touch me.”

“You’re doing so well,” he says, wrapping his hands around the curve of Lance’s knees and pushing them up until he’s practically bent double, legs bent and in the air. Lance knows he must look ridiculous, splayed out on his back and exposing everything like this, but judging by the ragged breathing filling the air, Keith seems to like it.

“I want you,” Lance says, trying to entice him, goad him into action so that he can finally _come._ “Come on, enough with the teasing.”

“So pushy,” Keith responds, but he doesn’t sound upset. If anything, he sounds amused at finding out that Lance is nearing his limit. “Fine. I’ll touch you.”

He expects to hear one of two things: Keith’s either going to grab his dick just like this, with the supple, expensive leather of the gloves encasing his hands, or he’s going to slip them off before he wraps his fingers around Lance and strokes him to completion. The latter is probably the smarter decision, given the fact that he doesn’t particularly want to ruin the pricy gloves with his come, but it’s kind of a disappointing thought, after all this teasing.

Neither happens, though. There is no tell-tale sound of leather slipping over the skin of Keith’s hands, only the sharp click of something plastic. Wait, he can’t possibly mean to—?

A finger presses against his entrance, slick with whatever lubricant Keith’s used, but he doesn’t feel the warmth of human skin. He’s familiar enough with the feel of the leather that he can recognize its texture immediately, and _fuck,_ Lance really isn’t going to last, if this is Keith’s intention. Some dazedly coherent part of his mind takes note of the fact that lube is undoubtedly going to ruin the expensive leather, that Keith is willing to waste such a costly purchase for Lance if it means getting him hot, and Lance whines, high and thready, as the finger pushes past initial resistance and into him.

It’s almost too much. Lance was close before, and now he’s effectively being fucked by _Keith’s fingers,_ which are encased in the leather of gloves that probably look stunningly beautiful against his pale skin —

“Keith,” he pants, sure that the burning around his eyes is causing wetness to show on the blindfold he’s still wearing. It’s nothing more than an observation: Lance is too far gone to feel shame about his wantonness, and he’s fairly confident that Keith isn’t about to complain about it, either.

“Hm?” Keith hardly pauses as he hums a response, too caught up in the rhythm of his digits entering and exiting Lance.

“I’m not going to—” _last,_ he means to say, but the sensation of Keith’s finger fucking in and out of him is too much for him to complete the sentence. His lashes flutter uselessly against the dark fabric tied across his face, and tension builds deep in his gut, the stirrings of what is clearly going to be one of the best orgasms of his life. The sensation builds until it’s a millisecond from reaching its crescendo, and then it _stops_ just as suddenly, and Lance’s vision whites out before he realizes that he hasn’t actually come.

“What the _fu—_ ” he starts, before he realizes there’s a tight grip at the base of his cock, staunching off his orgasm. If it was almost torture before, now he’s fairly sure he’s descended into the depths of hell, never to feel the pleasure of coming again.

“I want to be inside of you when you come.”

“Then stop teasing me,” he warbles, tears definitely soaking into the blindfold’s fabric now.

“Okay,” Keith says, like it’s the easiest acquiescence in the world and Lance isn’t about to die from orgasm denial, and then he sets about preparing Lance’s hole in earnest. He feels oversensitive despite not even coming a single time, like every single brush of Keith’s gloved hands against him is a spark that sets off a forest fire burning inside of him, and he fades in and out of coherency as Keith works a second finger into him and then a third. He’s on the edge of a precipice, looking down into the darkness of pleasure even as the tight grip on his cock prevents him from jumping, and it's overwhelming, catching every aspect of his attention and forcing him to succumb to Keith's mercy. 

“Hey,” Keith says, and then there’s a hand cupping his cheek. Lance nuzzles into it instinctively, even as his body shivers as Keith continues to fuck him on his fingers. “You doing okay? Should I stop?”

“Don’t you dare,” Lance says, words slurring just barely. A jolt of panic shoots through him at the notion of Keith walking away without letting Lance come — he’s gotten this far, hasn’t he? He’s followed Keith’s instructions, hasn’t come yet, wants to be _good_ for him so that Keith will be pleased with him and want to pleasure him, want to see him again —

Keith rolls him over until he’s on his stomach, dick pressing uncomfortably into the mattress. It’s almost too much — he could probably thrust his hips into the bed a few times and come just from that — but then he lines up his cock to Lance’s entrance and sinks into him without warning. Lance moans, throat feeling raw as it pushes its way out of his lungs. He slides in to the hilt, and it’s more of an ache than a flat-out pain. Lance has been prepared well, and his cock hurts more from withheld orgasms than the burning stretch, anyway.

When Keith fucks into him once and then a second time, Lance writhes in pleasure beneath him. He’s not going to last, but Keith clearly isn’t worrying about that anymore as he releases the pressure around the base of Lance’s cock and moves the hand to grip tightly at Lance’s sharp hipbone. His other hand slithers up Lance’s chest, bursts of pleasure as the leather drags against his skin, until it’s roughly circling the thin skin of his throat.

“Is this okay?” Keith asks from behind him, cock filling Lance to the brim. His voice is low with arousal that makes Lance's blood sing with pride; Keith is turned on because of  _him,_ is hard and fucking him because he finds him so desirable he's orchestrated this whole event just to satisfy him, and for a moment he's too worked up to completely comprehend what Keith's asking. The loose circle of Keith’s gloved fingers pressing against his throat causes him to swallow reflexively, _hard._

“Y-yeah,” he stutters out, feeling the way his Adam's apple bobs against Keith’s hand as he speaks. It’s not something he’s ever considered before, but right now, he’s pretty sure Keith could do _anything_ and he’d agree with it as long as it meant he could come in the near future. His heart is beating a thousand times per minute, and all he can think about is the desperate need to come.

The grip around his throat tightens ever so slightly, making it difficult to inhale. If he were in his proper mind, he might've panicked at such a notion, but right now, with Keith's cock sliding in and out of him, it only serves to fuel Lance's arousal more. Keith groans, low and filthy, before he fucks into him even harder, building a rhythm that’s relentless and feels far too good to Lance’s oversensitive body.

As Lance had predicted, it takes hardly any time before he’s moaning Keith’s name and coming, marring the mattress with his seed and feeling absolutely no regret about it whatsoever. Orgasm wracks his entire body, contorting his features into an expression of pure pleasure and scoring white across his eyes despite the dark blindfold, and he tastes the sharp tang of blood as his teeth bite into the flesh of his lip.

When he comes back to himself, he feels limp, boneless — well, except for one, he muses wryly — as Keith continues to drive into him, and the rhythm he's built stutters before he follows suit shortly thereafter: the flood of come inside of him is typically one Lance isn’t particularly fond of, but right now he likes the feel of it, like the way Keith leaves his mark in such a deep, intimate place.

“Rest,” Keith tells him, after the white noise in Lance’s mind from overwhelming pleasure has finally faded into something more manageable.

Lance moves his head a fraction of an inch in response. His eyes stay closed even as Keith slips careful hands beneath his head to untie the blindfold, and he's halfway into unconsciousness by the time Keith moves off the bed. He doesn’t remember anything after that.

 

* * *

 

“What do you get from this?” Lance asks, much later. They’ve moved from the luxurious hotel bed and into the grandiose bathroom, which boasts a huge bathtub that looks too expensive for a poor student like Lance to even feel comfortable _looking_ at, let alone resting in.

But Keith’s apparently pulling out all the stops, even though they’ve already come, because he had actually _carried_ Lance, bridal-style, into the bathroom before laying him in the prepared bath, which has _bubbles_ and smells heavenly.

Lance has never had such ridiculously preferential treatment before, but he’d rather die than voice a single complaint about it.

The question’s important, even though Lance feels drowsy with satisfaction, not unlike a lazy cat basking in the sunlight. Keith’s attentions make him feel warmer than any of the sun’s rays could, his touches gentle but focused.

Keith hums, but it’s not an answer. Lance cracks an eye open and their gazes lock as Keith swipes a washcloth over Lance’s chest, which definitely needs a scrubbing because there’s dried come on him and that’s _certainly_ not a good component for a beneficial moisturizing routine.

“My brother,” Keith says after awhile. Lance is so relaxed he almost forgets what exactly prompted Keith’s words, but he lets out a purring noise of acknowledgement when he remembers. “He works at the same company I do. He’s technically my boss, and helped me find a spot in one of the engineering teams. I’m not… too social, with my coworkers, but they know I have good ideas so they either deal with me or avoid me entirely. My brother threatened to start setting me up on countless blind dates if I didn't learn to treat them better."

Lance tries to imagine Keith on a blind date. He’d probably end up offending them immediately with some kind of blunt comment, and they’d tell his brother negative things, which would cause a feedback loop of more bad dates and behavior.

“You walked up to me when I was trying to think of a way to get out of it at that bar,” Keith continues. “And I thought that maybe if I could choose someone like you, it’d be easier to… be nice to others, I guess.” Lance opens an eye again and sees that Keith’s being genuine — his face is red with embarrassment, and his hands have stilled, like he can’t clean Lance’s skin _and_ talk about his feelings at the same time.

“You’re doing a wonderful job,” Lance offers, and it’s the truth. Keith hums, dropping the washcloth and moving his hands to run fingers through Lance's short hair. The scratching of his nails against his skill feels positively lovely. He’s also lying in a goddamn bubble bath after the best orgasms of his life.  _Wonderful_ is almost an understatement.

“You make it easy,” Keith responds quietly, before his fingers still in Lance’s hair, as though he hadn’t meant to say that aloud.

“Hey,” Lance says, sliding forward so he can press a kiss right onto Keith’s nose. “How about you get undressed and join me?”

Keith looks scandalized for a moment, like he’s perfectly fine with preparing a fragrant bubble bath for a lover but wouldn't dare actually climb into one himself, and Lance huffs a laugh before tugging on Keith’s arms until his weight shifts and he tumbles headfirst into the bathtub alongside Lance, clothes and all.

Screw his clothing; the expensive hotel they’re in can probably run them through the laundry, anyway. 

 

* * *

 

“I have a project to finish up this week,” Keith says the next morning, as Lance slides his jeans over his hips and makes a move to button them up. “So I won’t be free to see you again until it’s done.” He hesitates briefly, white teeth flashing as they pull Keith’s lower lip in between them. “If you… want to do this again, that is.”

Lance pauses. Keith sounds so… polite, in a way he has never seemed before. It’s ridiculous, given all that they’ve done together.

“I already have your number, so I guess we can skip that part,” he says with a smile. “We can go to dinner when you’re not so busy?”

Keith looks at him for a moment, unmoving. Lance isn’t sure what he’s looking for, but his offer was entirely genuine, and he hopes he meets the seal of approval for whatever criteria Keith is currently scoping out.

“I’ll take you out,” he says, finally, and then moves toward the nightstand to grab something.  When he turns around, it’s to offer Lance one of the gloves that had been lying conspicuously on the small wooden table, and he swallows thickly at the sight of it. As Lance had thought, the leather has been spoiled by lube and come, but looking at them fills him with no sense of loss at the expensive article of clothing; rather, he’s incredibly pleased at the sight of how ruined they are. "To keep you company while I'm away."

Lance was entirely right about his predictions for the evening, and the foreseeable future: he is _so_ fucked.

He grins so widely it hurts his face, and takes the proffered glove.


End file.
